Bressant eBook

She halted, wild-eyed and unsteady on her feet, her
hand trembling at her lips. A step in the passage
below, ascending the stairs slowly and heavily.
Oh! did it come in mercy? She tried to draw a
meaning from the sound—­then dared not trust
her inference. The steps had gained the landing
now—­were advancing along the entry toward
her door. Did they bear a load of sorrow only,
or of hate and condemnation likewise?

They paused at her threshold—­then there
was a knock, thrice repeated—­not loud,
nor rapid, nor regular, nor precise—­rather
as one heart might knock for admittance to another.
Cornelia tried to say “Come in,” or to
open the door, but could neither speak nor move.
Iron bands seemed to be clasped around all her faculties
of motion. Would he go away and leave her?

The door opened, turning slowly and hesitatingly on
its hinges, until it disclosed her father’s
venerable figure. His limbs seemed weak; his
shoulders drooped; but Cornelia looked only at his
face. His eyes were deep and compassionate.
He held out his arms, which shook slightly but continually:
“Come, my daughter,” said he.

She was his daughter still! She cried out, and,
walking hurriedly to him, laid herself close against
him, and he hugged her closer yet—­poor,
miserable, erring creature though she was.

So the three were reunited—­and not superficially,
but more intimately and indissolubly than ever before.
They would not be apart, but remained together in
Bressant’s room—­Sophie on the bed,
with an expression of divine contentment on her face,
Cornelia and the professor sitting near.

“Papa,” said Sophie, as the afternoon
came on, “I want to make my will.”

It was not a very intricate matter. The various
little bequests were soon made and noted down as she
requested. After all was disposed of, there was
a little pause.

“Neelie, dear,” then said Sophie, turning
her eyes full upon her, “I bequeath my love
to you.”

Cornelia perceived the hidden significance in the
words, and blushed so deep and warm that the tears
were dried upon her cheeks. Sophie went on, before
she could make any reply:

“And I have something left for you, too, papa,
though I know no one needs it less than you.
But you may be called on for a great deal, so I bequeath
you my charity. I haven’t had it so very
long myself.”

The professor bowed his head, and, the will being
complete, he took off his spectacles, and wiped them
with his handkerchief.

“I was telling Neelie this morning, papa,”
resumed Sophie, after a while, “that I had been—­that
I’d had a dream that I was with Bressant; and
I feel sure—­though I suppose you’ll
think it nothing but a sick fancy of mine—­that
he will be here to-morrow noon.”